The Rose Legacy by Kristen Heitzmann

would wear it. Nevertheless, it was wrapped in the package with the gun, and he took it from beneath the box. He made his way on foot through the incoming miners to Drake Road.
    Mae Dixon watched him from the porch like a well-fed cat. “Well, well. Quillan.”
    “Hello, Mae. I have a delivery for Miss DiGratia.”
    Her violet eyes took on a decidedly feline glee. “You can leave it at the desk.”
    Quillan cocked his head. “How would I get payment?”
    “She can leave it at the desk.”
    He took the steps up. The cool evening air ruffled the hair on his neck. “All right.”
    “Then again …” Mae nodded to the street. “You could hold still a moment.”
    Quillan turned as Carina DiGratia lifted her skirt and stepped off the end of the boardwalk. He saw only a flash of booted ankle, enough to confirm that her leg bones were as delicate as the rest of her. He noted the blue denim skirt they’d rescued from the mountain and a fresh white blouse with a lacy ruffle like moth’s wings down the front. Was it the torn and ragged blouse she’d scavenged? If so, she’d done admirably by it.
    She carried herself sprightly enough, unaware of an audience. He’d wager she had money, or at least she’d come from it. She didn’t look the hard-luck kind, come to find riches in the Rockies. Especially not by the means most women found it.
    He was surprised now that he could have thought so. There was an air of quality he’d missed on the road, a certain strength of spirit and breeding. She was like the dainty, dark Morgan horse he’d seen in Golden, small-boned and light-footed. If he pressed his imagination, he’d see her prance and bob her head as that filly had.
    But now she looked up and saw him, dark eyes suddenly large. He wished she wouldn’t startle so every time they met. It made him feel less than respectable. He tipped his hat. “Miss DiGratia.”
    Mae heaved herself up. “I’ll leave you two to settle business.” She went inside and closed the door that had stood open to catch the cross breeze.
    As Miss DiGratia climbed the steps, Quillan held out the package. “Your order.”
    She took it without comment and pulled open the paper. The gun was holstered, and she slid it out and tried the feel of it.
    He could see it was a good fit, but even a small gun had weight. Her wrist didn’t want to support it until she firmed the muscles and stiffened her arm. “You know how to use it?” he asked.
    “I understand the mechanism. I don’t need the holster….”
    “It’s no charge. Came with the gun.” He handed her the box of rimfire cartridges that hadn’t come free. “If you haven’t used a pistol …”
    “I’m certain I can learn. What do I owe you?”
    Why did he feel like a robber when he named his price? He’d hardly put anything on top for his trouble. It was recalling her on that slope, picking up the flotsam from her wagon …
    She held out the holster. “Take off a dollar and you can resell this.”
    She was bartering? He tucked his tongue between his side teeth and eyed her, her head tipped up to meet his gaze squarely, shoulders back. What good was it to sell a holster without a gun to fill it?
    “It’s a deal.” His voice was a stranger.
    She nodded her satisfaction and turned for the door. “The money’s inside.”
    Quillan leaned on the porch post. “I’ll wait here.” Raising his hat, he shook back his hair. A cricket sang from under the porch, and he could smell Mae’s cooking. Maybe he’d eat here tonight. Though Mae seated more than she roomed, he was early enough to get a place.
    And if he could get past Miss DiGratia’s defensiveness, he might even teach her to shoot. She “understood the mechanism.” He laughed softly. Point and shoot. That’s what she needed to know.
    Upstairs, Carina pulled the bills from the carpetbag. There were few enough left, things coming, as Mae said, dear up here. She smiled at how she had improved Mr. Shepard’s price for the gun. His